


Totem

by lmeden



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-07
Updated: 2010-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-11 14:11:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/lmeden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are we dreaming?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Totem

**Author's Note:**

> For aimlesstravels. She asked for schmoop, and this is about as close as I could get to it. Luckily, I avoided the dark ending that popped into my mind halfway through, though I will be exploring that ending in something else, I am sure. I also experimented with punctuation here (a bit). So, if there are no commas, just read the sentence like enjambment - in one headlong rush like an oncoming train - and don't stop until you reach a period or comma. I wanted to mimic a stream of thought, of consciousness.

He sits down beside the gaming table, fingers caressing its textured green top, his gaze fixing itself inexorably on the man who is already sitting shuffling a stack of cards fondling a single red poker chip. Eames' gaze falls downward, and Arthur cannot see his eyes shadowed as they are by the long thick lashes clinging to his pale translucent lids.

Eames glances up.

Down.

For a long moment Arthur sits transfixed by the sight before him - Eames' ever-shifting eyes his thick lips that run together as he purses them only to part with a whisper of sound an instant later his jawline swallowed by stubble.

Arthur cannot take his eyes away. He looks down to Eames' hands. They shuffle the cards around in a mobius fan. Their movement is mesmerizing and graceful, but Arthur knows that he cannot watch for long or he will never look away. He reaches down into his pocket slips the die into his fingertips. It leans more heavily against one fingertip one delicate pad than the others.

They are awake.

He looks back to Eames, just in time to catch the man glancing away from him.

"Are we dreaming?"

Arthur's voice fades dies in the silence that has surrounded them a thick smothering blanket. When Eames looks up, his hands stilling and dark eyes meeting Arthur's for the first time, Arthur doesn't expect him to speak. He expects Eames to open his mouth and for nothing to come out - only the narration of Arthur's own mind, like a silent film.

But Eames speaks, and his voice travels like a physical shock through Arthur, sending shivers through him. He swallows.

"Dreaming."

Eames' voice is careless his conclusion resolute. He believes what he says. Arthur does not. How can he be so sure? How, without a totem?

Arthur has never known the man to use or hold a totem – always assumed the lack to be symptomatic of the man's careless nature. But Eames is so sure. And no one can be that sure without a totem Arthur knows. So, what is Eames' totem?

He stands, making his way over to Eames, sits on the edge of the table. He reaches out, sliding his hands over Eames' shoulders and under his jacket, pushing the fabric slowly back. Eames' movements slow and stop, and he flexes his neck into the pull of the fabric lips parting as it slips, sudden, off him. Arthur slides his hand down, slowly across Eames' smooth chest, swelling under the thin fabric of his shirt all lift and carven curve, and gently touches the breast pocket. There is nothing within, but Arthur can see the press of a hardened nipple against the cotton only fingers-width from his hands, and so he lingers, leisurely inspecting the empty pocket.

Eames look up at his from beneath long dark lashes, but says nothing.

Arthur keeps moving, shifting his hand up to Eames' collar bending it gently down. There is nothing substantial tucked underneath it, where a tie would lie should Eames take the time to wear one. So Arthur shifts the tips of his fingers, running them out across the worn seams.

At the edge of Eames' shoulder, where everything drops away, Arthur hesitates, then swiftly runs his whole hand down Eames' arm feeling the shape of muscles underneath the thin fabric – muscles that tremble and shift with every minute touch from Arthur. He lids his eyes to contain his pleasure at Eames' reaction.

Not daring to look up into Eames' dark fathomless eyes that would surely suck him in and torment him should he cast his gaze up high Arthur moves lower, fondling Eames' cuff briefly. And lower, to Eames' belt.

Eames is very still under Arthur's focused gaze as he works his hand across the leather belt soft and worn and used to the heavy buckle. His fingers close on it pressing it back to Eames and Eames' hand clasps Arthur's who draws in a sudden sharp breath lips parting minutely and hand twitching.

"What are you doing?"

Arthur steadies his wildly thumping heart striving for calm in the tumultuous moment. He raises his eyes slowly. Eames is watching him closely, his gaze dark and unfathomable. What has he been doing, again?

"I was looking for your totem."

Eames' gaze softens, and he settles back slipping from Arthur's grip leaning lazily languidly against the back of the chair.

"Don't you know?"

"No."

"You're my totem."

Arthur stares without thought without movement without intelligence. He is Eames' totem? How could that be?

"You're here, Arthur. Means I'm dreaming."

Arthur's hand lashes out snags Eames' arms drags the startled man forward before Arthur or Eames can think, or process, or fight.

And Arthur kisses him deeply, to prove that he is real.


End file.
